The Lion of Hazarkhilna
by Dusk Dreaming
Summary: King Edmund is sent to Calormen, partly to negotiate a trade agreement, and partly to keep him from interfering with High King Peter's plans. He forms a bond with a Calormene ambassador that will challenge his faith and his loyalties. Slash, some AU.
1. The Council

Edmund was the last to enter the council room. His brother and sisters, along with their councillors, were already seated around the table.

"Well met, dear brother," High King Peter said, rising to clasp Edmund's hand warmly. "We feared thou wouldst not come." Peter truly was magnificent, as they called him. He was tall and broad now, with a real king's face: comely, fierce, and inspiring love in all who gazed upon it.

"Well met, sir," Edmund replied, inclining his head. "For my tardiness and my state of disarray, I beg the pardon of this exalted company."

Queen Lucy laughed; the sound came out golden and bright as her hair.

"Oh, brother dear! Wherefore dost thou beg our pardon?" she cried. Rising from her seat, she rushed towards Edmund and seized him by his shoulders, planting kisses all over his face with unladylike abandon. "How long has it been since I last set eyes upon thee? Too long! That much I do know. My heart hath grown sick out of longing for thine handsome face. Tell us, what news of the North? Didst thou meet with the giants and dwarves?"

Lucy was a young woman now, but her eyes still shone with the innocence of childhood, and age had not diminished the grace that clung to her like a mist.

"Aye, I did," Edmund replied gravely. "And would that I could greet thy bright spirit with glad tidings. Yet the news I bear is weighty in the extreme." He brushed aside a few strands of Lucy's golden hair and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"No matter, sir. The crowns upon our heads are weighty. Duty is weighty. To alter these things thou art powerless. But come, thou must see High Queen Susan! Susan! Behold, our brother hath returned to us!" Queen Lucy tugged Edmund's hands, pulling him along.

Queen Susan was a beauty. She took away the breath of all who looked upon her. Her skin glowed like moonlight on ice, flushed with delicate brushstrokes of rose. Her raven hair fell in curtains of silk, tumbling down either side of her face. Her eyes smouldered like black pearls. For one awful moment, Edmund was reminded of another beautiful woman he had seen long ago, riding a sleigh pulled by enchanted reindeer, when he had first come to Narnia. She had that same quality about her, that bewitching, entrancing beauty. The thought made Edmund feel unclean.

"King Edmund," Queen Susan said coolly, arching an eyebrow. "Thou hast returned to us in the last. Dear brother, my heart rejoiceth." She extended a hand, pale and flawless as a drift of maiden snow. Edmund kissed it, shuddering slightly as his lips brushed her skin. "Pray join us, that we may attend to matters of state."

Edmund seated himself on a high-backed wooden chair between the two Queens. He felt out of place in his soiled riding clothes, surrounded by his fellow regents and their advisors in all their finery.

"Let us begin," declared High King Peter. "Royal Secretary Fleetfeather, if thou wouldst."

A plump crow with glossy black plumage puffed himself up and cleared his throat.

"The first order of business," he said in an oily voice, "is the question of the military tax."

"I thought we had agreed upon that," High King Peter said.

"Certainly, my liege. However, there have been disturbances throughout the kingdom. The autumn harvest was not as bountiful as predicted. A cold winter will be upon us soon. Some animals are complaining that they cannot provide the two bales of hay per household, or equivalent, that Cair Paravel demands."

"In times of war, we must all make sacrifice," High King Peter said. "Without armies to defend our borders, the common animals will suffer the most. They needs must endure the tax."

"Beg pardon, sir, but we are not at war," Edmund said.

"For the now. There are Telmarine raiders to the west, pirates on the east, giants in the north and Calormenes to the south."

"I heard there was a disturbance in the city yesterday," Queen Lucy murmured.

"You heard truly, Your Highness," Fleetfeather replied. "The Paravel Country Cows' Association held a demonstration and declared their intention to embark on a general strike, halting the production of milk."

Captain Honeyclaw, a burly brown bear who was the leader of the Paraveldon City Watch, spoke up.

"We put a stop to that protest, right enough," he said. "Chucked the ringleaders in jail. Got 'em in a holding cell for disturbing the peace."

"I was not informed of this," High King Peter said, his voice rising. "Subjects of my city will not be imprisoned merely for voicing their opinion."

Edmund found it curious that Peter called Paraveldon _my city_.

Honeyclaw flinched away slightly.

"Beg pardon, Your Majesty. It were on the orders of Chief Minister Dusset that I done it."

Dusset was a handsome dog fox with a beautiful rusty coat and intelligent yellow eyes.

"My liege," he said, addressing High King Peter. "At present, thousands depend on the milk produced by Paravel's fields alone. We directly supply Narnian troops in the south, east and west. I sincerely apologise if my actions seem heavy-handed, but I could not allow our local economy to be disrupted by a few malcontents. What happens in the city can have repercussions throughout the kingdom. At the earliest convenience, I will order the orchestrators released so they may plead their case before Your Majesty. In the meantime, milk production has returned almost to normal."

High King Peter looked troubled, but he nodded in agreement.

"So be it," he said.

"I will go and see the cows today," Queen Lucy announced suddenly. No one dared to oppose her.

"And what of the taxation rate?" Fleetfeather asked.

"This talk of food shortage disturbeth me," High Queen Susan said in her cool, measured tones. "I have received correspondence and reports of mine own, warning of the poor harvest. Mayhap the military tax ought to be reconsidered for those in dire straits."

"The High Queen's compassion is well known," Chief Minister Dusset said in velvet tones. "Yet this is difficult, difficult. If we begin making exemptions for the military tax, many will put in claims. The Royal Treasury will deflate. It is already nearly empty. And the common animals will complain that some are being given special treatment."

"From what I was given to understand," croaked Fleetfeather, "part of the grievance the Cows' Association had was that they were required to give up their milk, whereas other animals were asked to merely labour or gather food."

"A ludicrous complaint," Chief Minister Dusset sniffed. "We can hardly expect fieldmice to give us milk, can we?"

"How about a banking system with coinage?" Edmund put in. "It would allow us to tax each animal equally, and make it easier to trade. Calormen has a currency called the Crescent."

"The Calormene are barbarians," Chief Minister Dusset said, wrinkling his muzzle delicately.

"No doubt they say the same about us," Edmund replied. "Yet we may learn things even from barbarians."

"That idea will have to wait," said High King Peter. "The Royal Treasury is too pinched for new ventures. Our priority is feeding our subjects and guarding our borders."

"Mayhap we could trade with Archenland for food," High Queen Susan suggested. "And Calormen is not quite on hostile terms with us."

Trade Minister Goldenheim, a magpie with sharp eyes, shook his head.

"Would that we could, Your Majesty, but we have precious little to trade," he squawked.

"The north," growled War Minister Snowfang, a grizzled grey wolf bitch who lay low in a patch of sunlight. "The mountains are rich in gems, ores and precious metals."

All eyes turned towards Edmund, who shook his head.

"The dwarves and giants are not kindly disposed towards us," he said. "The memory of the Witch is yet strong in those parts."

"By rights the land is Cair Paravel's," growled Snowfang. She turned her fierce yellow gaze towards High King Peter. "With Your Majesty's permission, I will crush the northern rebels and bring their wealth to the south. Thus may we feed our people."

"_No," _Edmund interjected, surprising even himself. "The last thing we need is another war. War beggareth the kingdom and removeth animals who would otherwise be toiling the soil. But for the need to feed the soldiers on our borders, we'd have no food shortage."

"And how dost thou propose to feed our subjects?" High Queen Susan asked.

"I know not. All I know is that yet another war will exacerbate the problem."

"In the short run, perhaps," mused High King Peter. "Yet in the long run? Having the north under our control once and for all, with access to their riches, would take the strain off our treasury and our men."

"There is no short run in war!" Edmund burst out. "The people of the north despise us. Were we to conquer them, they would hold five years and launch a rebellion. We would need more soldiers in the north than ever before to keep the peace. And they will keep rebelling again and again, unless we were to eliminate every one of them!"

"Then let us do so," said High King Peter.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" said Edmund.

"The northern dwarfs, giants and trolls have been a thorn in our side since our coronation. We have given them every opportunity to repent of their sins, make peace and accept our authority. Yet they refuse Aslan's grace and cling to their evil ways and their service to the Witch's memory. They are a degraded and evil race, utterly without redeeming qualities. Mayhap the time hath come to eliminate them."

"When I was in the north," Edmund said coldly, "I saw giant and dwarven children slain by Narnian soldiers. _Children. _Slain because they were outside Aslan's grace, beyond redemption, and therefore _evil. _Hast thou forgotten, sir, that I was once in service of the Witch? That I was once evil? Wouldst thou have slain me? Nay, do not answer; I fear thy reply." Edmund rose to his feet. "I am weary from travelling. I beg the leave of this distinguished company to retire to my chambers."

"Oh, Edmund!" Queen Lucy said sadly, but he ignored her and marched out of the room.

* * *

**A/N:**

It has been a long time since I've read the Narnia books, and the only one I really remember is the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. So I may mix things up or get things wrong. Some alterations are deliberate. For example, I put the Telmarines in even though they aren't supposed to appear until after the Pevensies leave Narnia.

Please note that this story is rated M. There will be strong coarse language, violence, probably sex scenes and other mature themes that are unsuitable for children and sensitive individuals.

This is a slash story. If you believe homosexuality is morally wrong, please read something else. And don't communicate with me, or I will swear at you and abuse you viciously. Thank you.


	2. Dreams

Edmund's sleep was troubled, filled with nauseating dreams. He lay on his back, chained to the Stone Table, icy manacles digging into his wrists. Her face, white as snow, with its terrible red lips and eyes black as sin, hovered above him.

"No!" he cried, twisting and turning, but he could not escape. Her fingers brushed his skin, sending shivers through his whole being, cold so intense that it burned. Everything was numb. Her face leaned in, covering his, and Her breath was the breath of endless winter.

"Aslan!" he shouted hoarsely, his voice catching in his throat. "Please! Help me! Aslan!"

Her hair fell around him in swathes of endless night, blotting out the stars.

"Traitor," she whispered. Her eyes were gaping patches of starless sky. "Traitor's blood. You are mine."

"No!" Tears came to his eyes. "I'm not yours. I am Aslan's. He ransomed me."

"Traitor," she hissed. "See the mark of your shame." She tore open the front of his tunic, and there, carved into his chest, was the word _TRAITOR, _burnt into his flesh, staring redly at him, accusing him_._ "Traitor's blood belongs to me. Did you think you could escape from me? I, who killed my own world and everything in it. I, who ate the forbidden fruit, and travelled from world to world in search of power. Did you think you could escape _me_?"

"Aslan…"

"Your kitty cat is not here. He cannot help you now. You are mine, aren't you, Edmund? My little prince. Come, my dear. I promised you would rule beside me, did I not?"

She kissed him, her lips clamping over his own. Her nails tore into the flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood. His mouth filled with the sickly-sweet taste of Turkish Delight, and he saw the stone knife raised in her hand. The knife flew towards his chest…

Edmund awoke, retching, his hair and clothes sodden with sweat. He leaned over the side of his bed and vomited into his chamber pot. When his stomach had finished heaving, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and lay back in the sheets, exhausted. He feared to close his eyes lest the image of the Witch return.

Why did he still see her after all these years? Why did she still haunt him? Why hadn't Aslan driven her away? For that matter, where was Aslan? Why had He not revealed Himself?

There was a sickness inside him, burning, eating him up from the inside. The Witch had infected him with Her poison. Vainly he called on the Lion's name, but he could no longer feel the warmth of Aslan's presence. He was alone.

He slid out of bed, strode across the room, threw open the balcony doors and stepped out into the crisp autumnal night. In a blue-black sky pricked with stars, clouds scudded across the face of the creamy moon. He leaned against the balustrade and bowed his head, relishing the sensation of the wind playing gently with his locks. It soothed him.

King Edmund the Just, they called him, yet he felt neither very kingly nor very just of late. On the contrary, he felt lost, alone and confused. He was losing faith in himself, his fellow regents, and in Narnia itself. He didn't understand why Aslan had made them kings and queens of this country.

The day of their coronation seemed more and more like a distant dream. He had felt so happy and light on that day. He could barely remember it now.

He looked up at the sky.

"Oh, Aslan," he whispered. "Don't let Her take me." Stone lions watched him from plinths, their expressions gentle yet fierce. There was no reply. There never was.

He turned and went back inside.

* * *

On the morrow, Edmund rose early and called for a bath. Servants bore a large wooden tub filled with simmering water to his washroom. Stripping off his clothes, he threw them aside in an untidy jumble and dived into the tub.

_"Ahh…" _he sighed, as the hot water enveloped him, stinging his skin and warming his whole body, the heat seeping into his bones. Having spent the better part of a year encamped in the freezing north, where the land was cloaked in thick ice and the howling wind constantly tore at the flesh, a real hot Cair Paravel bath was pure bliss.

Afterwards Edmund allowed the servants to dry him with soft, thick towels before dismissing them. Not wanting to rouse his squire, he opened the heavy chest at the foot of his bed and rummaged through the rich vestments before garbing himself in a grass green tunic, grey hose, a warm emerald cloak and soft deerskin boots. A plain gold band upon his head and a sword belt cinched around his waist completed his outfit. He spent a few moments examining himself critically in the looking-glass. Were he on the field he would pay no heed to his appearance, but at court he must make an effort to look the part of a king. He was certain that his squire Orion would have made a far superior work of dressing him – the loyal cat had an eye for colour and style – but that could not be helped.

The castle's walkways were empty but for a few servants scurrying hither and thither. Dawn had barely broken, painting the eastern sky with yellow bars and rosy stains. Glimmers of light adorned each wave that glided in on the Eastern Ocean to spend itself on the rocks of Paravel Bay. Edmund paced the castle's corridors and paths, not quite knowing where he was heading.

He entered the gardens by the golden gates and walked for a time as though in a dream. Winding lanes set with many-hued stones wove between flower beds, pavilions, bowers and orchards. Tall, slender-limbed trees burdened with fruit shook their boughs in the breeze, scenting the air with perfume. Each breath Edmund took was like a draught of heady wine.

Sitting on a wooden bench, he watched a marble mermaid pour a sparkling stream of water from a stone urn into an upturned lotus. Idly, he plucked a late-blooming rose and twirled its stem between his fingers, staring into the fountain's pool, watching the rippling distortions on the water's surface. He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Good morn, sir," said Queen Lucy. She wore a simple peach gown and a cream cloak. Her gold hair was tied back in a long plait.

"Good morn, my lady," Edmund replied, making room for Lucy to sit beside him. "What bringeth thee from thy bed so hastily?"

"I might ask thee the very same question."

Edmund let out a sigh.

"Mayhap I am accustomed to Cair Paravel no longer. My dreams were troubled."

"Thy waking also."

"I beg thy pardon?"

Edmund glanced at his sister.

Queen Lucy said, "Oh, Edmund, I know it is wrong to favour one sibling over another. Yet I cannot help but feel closer to thee than to any other." She placed her little hand on his.

Edmund started.

"Hast thou forgotten how ill I used thee, once upon a time?" he asked.

"Nay. " Queen Lucy regarded him earnestly. "Thou didst not truly mean it. Thou knew not what thou did."

"Lucy…"

"If only thou wouldst share thy burdens, sir. Thou needst not be so lonesome."

"Would that I could. My burdens are between myself and Aslan."

"Yet Aslan is distant. And I am near… for the now." Lucy bowed her head. "Thou wilt be leaving again. Soon." She blinked, her eyes moist.

Edmund embraced her gently.

"Weep not, my little Lucy," he said. "Else my heart will break. Thou art a queen now, and needst must be strong for me. Wilt thou not put on a brave face? Fain would I pass my days and nights here with thee in Cair Paravel. We would walk together in the gardens, gathering flowers to wear in our hair. We would stroll on the beach, collecting seashells to trade with the merfolk for rare corals and pearls. We would ride, and hawk, and hunt, and fish -"

"Enough, sir." Lucy covered Edmund's mouth with her hand. "Speakest thou no more of this. I was selfish. Forgive me, I prithee."

"Thou art the least selfish person I know."

"Only… I fear we are growing apart from each other. Thou art seldom at Cair Paravel. Queen Susan hath her suitors and princes to entertain. High King Peter safeguardeth the kingdom, and speaketh of little else but royal affairs. I find it taxing, but mayhap I am being merely being selfish."

Edmund buried his face in Lucy's sweet-smelling hair. Sometimes he forgot how young she was, and how quickly she had been forced to grow up.

"I will stay as long as I may," he murmured. "Yet when the time cometh for me to go, I must go. We are kings and queens of Narnia."

"I know." Lucy blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. "Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen."


	3. Enter Orion

Edmund watched as Lucy's little form glided away through the garden. She had sundry matters to attend to, being a resident queen of Cair Paravel. It had been many months since Edmund had had to deal with such things. He had volunteered to lead the war expedition to the northern lands, and in his heart he felt more a military commander than a governor. Even before his sojourn, he had preferred reading books and learning things to the pomp of affairs of state.

There was something clean and simple about the art of war. It was a contest between two wills with clear objectives. Certainly there was subterfuge and misdirection, but there was a fundamental honesty in knowing that your enemy wished to kill you. In politics it was impossible to guess others' intentions.

"Well, well, well," purred a low, silken voice. "Do mine eyes deceive me? Surely I did not just see a lovely blond damsel taking her leave of our stoic King Edmund?"

Silently, a cat appeared beside Edmund. On his hind legs he stood about three quarters of Edmund's height. He had a handsome coat of glossy fur, black except for his paws which were pure white. An azure hat topped with a long yellow feather sat on his head at a jaunty angle, and a scabbard was belted around his waist. He wore stout boots on his feet and had beautiful wide green eyes with slitted pupils.

"Orion," said Edmund. "I did not hear thee approach."

"Of course you didn't, Sir," said the cat, stroking his whiskers. "You Sons of Adam are blind as bats and deaf as dirt, if you don't mind me saying so. Though you doubtless have other qualities which make you fit to govern us lowly beasts, else Aslan would not have made it so. He is a cat, after all, and we cats do not make mistakes." Orion's legs relaxed and snapped back like coiled springs, and suddenly he was standing on the bench beside Edmund. "But enough of this coyness! Your Highness is a cunning devil and no mistake! Playing the part of a prim and proper prince with ice running in his veins, while frolicking with maids in the royal gardens on the sly. I knew it must be an act. Sir must explain the presence of that saucy wench! I will hear all the details!"

"Guard thy tongue, Orion!" said Edmund. "That 'saucy wench' is none other than Queen Lucy the Valiant, who reigneth over the realm of Narnia by grace of the Lion!"

Immediately, Orion removed his hat, clutched it to his chest and went down on one knee. "Your unworthy servant begs your forgiveness, Your Highness. If my tongue has offended thee, but say the word and I shall tear it out. I am a vile and vulgar knave. I 'ave no right to speak afore princes and kings. I was born in a cardboard box in a dirty alley to a poor old mog what had twenty six kittens and no way of lookin' after 'em. I never had no proper upbringing and I had to live off what I found in the gutters. It were better I had a brick tied 'round my neck and were drowned in a well than I should insult you so."

He looked so silly and apologetic that Edmund had to chuckle. "Oh, get up, thou silly cat. Thy story ever changeth. I seem to recall thou told me once thy mother was a rich Siamese who lived in a mansion."

"Would it please you, Sir, to hear that she was?"

"I suspect thou art not being entirely truthful about thy past, Orion."

"What do you expect, Sir? All cats are liars and I am the greatest liar of all." Orion said this with an air of pride. "We are a selfish, scheming, ungrateful people. We despise each other only marginally less than we despise other races. We make poor friends and terrible enemies. Personally, I would not trust another cat as far as I could piss."

"And yet thou saved my life in the North."

"Ah, Sir, I have spent much time on the road, and along the way I seemed to have picked up a sense of compassion. It is quite unfashionable in a cat. When we see others in pain, our first instinct is to toy with them, not to help. However, I am a trendsetter and I believe in doing things my own way." Orion replaced his hat on his head and adjusted it.

"Thank the heavens for that, else I would not be sitting here."

"There is no point in thanking the heavens, Sir. They are too far away to hear and they do not care in any case. It would be better save your thanks for the one who rendered you whichever service you are thankful for – not that I am keeping accounts! Now, what shall we get up to today?" Orion paced around the bench, the tip of his tail twitching. "I have not been to Paraveldon before and you are no doubt keen to see how it has fared in your absence. Two confirmed bachelors with the fabled royal city at our feet. Who knows what mischief we shall encounter? I for one intend to become a father ten times over before lunchtime."

"None of that sort of talk, Orion. We are in Cair Paravel now and need must comport ourselves with dignity. Any unsavoury conduct on the part of my retinue will reflect ill on me. I have instructed all to be on their best behaviour."

Orion sighed. "Ah, Sir. This is why animals call you King Edmund the Humourless behind your back. Never mind. You know best, I'm sure. Come, let us be off."

…

A steady stream of messengers, most of them birds, flowed in and out of High King Peter's study. When Lucy knocked on the door, the king raised a hand and sent the envoys away. He beckoned Lucy closer to him, looking rather tired as he sat surrounded by thick stacks of parchment, a quill in his hand.

"Ah, Madam," he said. "There thou art."

"Didst thou wish to see me, Sir?" Lucy enquired.

"I did. We are to hold another council this evening."

"Another, Sir?" Lucy frowned.

"Indeed. There are many pressing matters to discuss. Hast thou any inkling of our brother's whereabouts? He was not to be found in his chambers."

"He arose early this morning. I believe he intended to take in the sights of the city."

"The sights of the city?" Now it was Peter's turn to frown. "This is not a sightseeing expedition! He hath returned to his seat of power after nigh on a year in the north. I have yet to receive a single report from him or his officers."

"He hath been under much strain of late. Perhaps it were better we give him time to recover."

"What, and the rest of us were picking daisies? We have all been under strain. He hath already walked out on one council. Now you tell me he intendeth to be absent from more?"

Lucy bowed her head and folded her hands. "I meant to speak with thee about that, Sir. I mislike the way thou quarrelled with King Edmund."

"I mislike it also, I assure thee. Apart from anything else, it was unseemly for our councillors to witness such a spectacle. We must bear ourselves with dignity."

Lucy looked anguished. "Dost thou truly believe our soldiers slew children?"

"I beg thy pardon? Oh. Yea, I suppose it must be true. King Edmund hath no cause to lie."

"Then how could it come to pass? Wilt thou order an investigation into this affair? See to it that the guilty parties are held accountable?"

The king shook his head, as if dislodging a fly. "This is war, Lucy. I do not expect thee to comprehend. Such things occur. Remember, Father Christmas gave thee not a weapon when first we came to Narnia. Aslan did not intend for thee to taste combat. Womenfolk have gentle hearts, and thine is gentler than most. You understand not these matters."

"But Edmund is not a woman, and he was aggrieved also!"

High King Peter took a slow, heavy breath and sat back in his chair. "My dear sister, I believe that Aslan, in His wisdom, appointed each of us to rule Cair Paravel for a reason. Each of us hath our own peculiar strengths and weaknesses. In his youth, our brother went astray and turned his back on what was good and true. Afterwards he was restored to us by Aslan's sacrifice – I need not remember those events to thee, for thou wert there, and witnessed more of them than I did – and subsequently his character was transformed. For because he once went astray, he now feeleth sympathy for all those who likewise turn from what is right and proper. This compassion of his, this ability to reserve judgement and feel concern for his enemies, is a great strength. Indeed, his fairness and justice are spoken of throughout the land. Yet within them lieth a grave weakness, for a king who ever reserveth judgement and shrinketh from administering punishment faileth in his duty to his people, to his crown, and to the Lion Himself."

"Dost thou mean to tell me, Sir," asked Lucy, tilting her head to one side, "that thou perceiveth King Edmund's attitude to the north as one of leniency, which thou purposeth to correct?"

"Aye."

"Then I must ask thee, Sir, to consider what thine own great weakness is? And hast thou given thought to whether it is thee who needeth correction by King Edmund's example?" Colour rose in Lucy's cheeks as she spoke.

"Believe me, my dear Lucy," High King Peter said, looking weary again, "there is not a day that passeth without knowledge of mine own inadequacy vexing me. We four were made sovereigns of Narnia, yet as the eldest I feel that my crown is mayhap the heaviest of all. Each decision I make altereth the course of entire nations, each stroke of the pen can save or damn a hundred souls. In due course of time I shall be judged for all the good and ill I have wrought. Meantime, all I can do is take the advice I am given, deliberate carefully, and follow the demands of my conscience. That is all any of us can do." He drew a stack of parchments towards him and took up his pen. "I bid thee good day, my Lady."


	4. In Paraveldon Market

The hustle and bustle of Paraveldon's Hightown market almost overwhelmed Edmund. He'd forgotten how crowded the capitol was, how colourful, how busy, how noisy. And how could he have forgotten the smells?

"Bread! Get ya steamin' 'ot bread!" squawked a goose standing before a cart, spreading his grey wings.

"Turnips! 'Taters! Carrots! Beets!" bayed a small black mole with a wheelbarrow, squinting in the sunlight.

"Flour 'n' eggs!" clucked a hen. "Flour 'n' eggs!"

"Try your hand at a game of chance!" called a hedgehog. "Who dares to spin the wheel of fate?"

"Lucky charms!" croaked a crow. "Love potions! Spells and ointments!"

Orion was clearly in his element. "Ahh," he sighed, as he strolled beside Edmund, his boots somehow picking out a clean path on the grimy cobbles. "You can keep your fancy mansions and your palace gardens. To a streetcat, nothing beats the smell of hot food and gutters full of piss."

At the tomcat's suggestion, Edmund had exchanged his courtly raiment for the plain tunic and hose of a commoner. Edmund had not seen the point of this. Most of the common folk did not know his face, but the sight of humans in Paraveldon was uncommon enough to attract attention in any case… or at least, it had been when he'd left.

"There are so many Men here now," Edmund said wonderingly.

"Aye," said Orion. "And they look like a nasty, thieving, murdering lot. Take my word for it. Cats can always spot competition. Keep a close eye on your purse and if anyone brushes against you, make sure your belongings are still on your person."

"Whence hail they?"

"By the looks of it, everywhere. Archenland, Calormen, Khillene, Telmar, Gaulle. The Witch forbade Men from entering Narnia. When the Rule of the Four was established, the gates of Narnia were thrown open to Mankind. The very instant Your royal arse hit the throne, humans began pouring into our kingdom, more and more of them every day."

"Thou seemest displeased."

"I have no quarrel with Men. People are people, never mind whether they have paws or hands or wings. Other beasts feel differently. They feel Narnia belongs to animals. Haven't you heard it said:

_When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone_

_Sits on Cair Paravel in throne_

_The common animals will groan_

_Our fair kingdom humans will own."_

Edmund was troubled. "Animals sing this, do they? Doth the High King know of this?"

"Well, they would hardly march up to Cair Paravel and sing it to his face, would they? No, this is a song sung by beasts for other beasts."

They went down a broad flight of steps and turned into another street. The crowd surged around them while birds fluttered from branch to branch overhead. There seemed to be more beggars and destitutes in the streets, a fact that Edmund noted with unease.

"In time, people will learn to show love to one another," he said. "Were we not all created by the Lion?"

"Not everyone believes that. Most of the Telmarines and Gaullish are Trinitarians. The Calormenes and Khillenics have many foreign gods. Who knows what the Archenlanders believe in."

"Nevertheless it be true."

Orion made a face.

"Thou believest not in Aslan?" asked Edmund. It would not surprise him. His squire was a most singular character.

"Well, it's easy for you to believe in Aslan when he's appeared to you personally and spoken to you. Most of us aren't that lucky. We weren't there at the battle of the Stone Table. All we remember is the hundred years of winter and the terror we lived in under Jadis. Where was Aslan when my father died, leaving my family to fend for itself? Where was He for a hundred years while the Witch brutalised Narnia? Why did He wait for His precious humans to arrive before showing Himself? Were the common animals not good enough for Him? And if He made this world, why did He make it so full of shit?" He laughed bitterly.

Edmund remembered how he had called for Aslan's help in his nightmares of the Witch, and how the Lion never answered. A sliver of doubt crept into his heart. "Narnia holdeth much suffering and sorrow," he observed. "I know not wherefore Aslan hath made it so. There must be a reason. It is a difficult philosophical problem."

"Aslan is a cat, remember? We like toying with our prey, teasing and tormenting it before we kill it. We are all His mice, and this world is a cruel, sadistic game to Him. See, theological conundrum solved!" Orion laughed again.

The tomcat stopped outside an ornate building with a beautiful carved dome-topped roof.

"Ah, a Calormene coffeehouse!" said he. "Who says all these humans in Narnia is a bad idea? Come, let us stop here."

Edmund eyed the building suspiciously. A couple of young men stood to attention outside, dressed in ornate Calormene outfits. One of them approached.

"Welcome, welcome, most honoured Sirs," the youth said in Narnian moderately flavoured by his rough native tongue. Sunlight sparkled off the gold thread and beads in his tunic and set his dark brown curls aflame. He bowed deeply, showing them the top of his strange, embroidered cylindrical cap. "Your humble slave invites you cordially to sup of our fine Calormene cuisine."

"A table for two, if you please," said Orion.

"At once, Sir."

They were ushered into a large room where a number of Men and Animals sat on rugs in place of tables. The walls were decorated with hanging carpets painted with hypnotic designs, and pieces of ornate calligraphy. Several of the patrons were puffing on long tubes and expelling smoke into the air. A fragrant bluish haze drifted over their heads. Their guide directed them to a mat and bade them recline on some satin cushions.

"A cup of Granizi black coffee for me," said Orion. "And give my friend a cup of Siyulki tea."

"It will be an honour for this humble slave to serve you, Sir."

"I bet it will."

The waiter bowed deeply again and retreated.

Edmund was impressed. "Thou seemest well-acquainted with Calormene dining."

"One picks these things up on the road."

Edmund cast an eye over the other patrons. About half of them looked to be Calormene, judging by their foreign garb and dark features. The other patrons looked to be Narnian, both Men and Animals.

"Wait until you try Siyulki tea," Orion said, stroking his whiskers. "It's one of the most delicious drinks known to Man. And Beast."

"My mind misgives," said Edmund. "If these foodstuffs be imported from Calormen, surely some of them were produced by slave labour."

"A fair point," said Orion. "However, lest we feel too superior to the Calormenes, let us remember that Aslan permitted slavery in Narnia until 643 AL, when He had a sudden change of heart and decided that it was wrong after all."

"Beware, Orion. Thou mayst be frank with me, but at court some may take offence at the freedom of thy tongue. My brother among them. It were best thou spoke with care."

"Fear not for my safety. I have several of my nine lives remaining yet."

The waiter returned with a tray bearing two steaming cups, which he placed before Edmund and Orion before withdrawing. Orion took his cup up in a paw and slurped it, plumes of steam curling around his face. Edmund lifted his goblet and squinted into it. It was filled with a clear golden-brown liquid with black flecks floating in the bottom. He took a sip. It was delicious, warm and savoury with a strong spicy flavour he did not recognise.

"How is it?" Orion asked.

"Very flavoursome." Edmund drained his cup in less than a minute. "But I shall not drink it again. Not unless it can be guaranteed no slave was involved in its making."

"They do call you the Just," Orion observed. "Among other things." Once they had finished, Orion beckoned the waiter over and gave him a few coins, and they left the coffeehouse.

"Do honour us with your esteemed patronage again, kind Sirs," the waiter called after them.

"Thou carryest Calormene coin in thy purse?" Edmund asked as they strolled through the streets once more.

"Many beasts do, in areas where there are sufficient numbers of Calormenes. It has become an unofficial currency. One may sell goods to a Calormene merchant for a crescent, and spend that crescent on food and drink at a Calormene coffeehouse. Or, one can give one's coin to a Narnian in exchange for his goods, who will pass it on to another Narnian in exchange for her goods, who will pass it onto yet another Narnian, who will finally pass it to a Calormene in exchange for _his _goods. It's more convenient than barter. I wish Narnia had its own coinage."

"It is likewise with me also. The council are not open to new ideas."

"If anyone can persuade them to embrace the future, it will be our silver-tongued King Edmund."

"I fear I do not feel very silver-tongued of late. More leaden. Yes, leaden. My bones are weighty and weary." Edmund sighed.

"Fie! You speak like an old man, but you are barely more than a kitten in Cat years. What you need is to find your passion, something that lights a fire in your belly. Perhaps a young maid."

"Maids interest me not."

"A battle. A good fistfight."

"I have seen too much blood already. Of battle I am weary."

"You are a difficult case, Your Grace. Perhaps… a really good book?"

They passed through another market square with rough wooden stalls erected beneath leather shades.

"Would you say there many Calormenes in Paraveldon?" Edmund asked.

"For sooth. More than I have seen anywhere."

"Good. Lend me a few crescents, an' it please thee."

When Orion handed the coins over, Edmund walked to an old homeless She-Goat who huddled with six of her kids beneath a moth-eaten woollen shawl. He passed her the coins and saw her black-and-white face wrinkle with gratitude.

"Lion bless you, Son of Adam," she said in a broken voice. "My kids shall have fruit and fresh vegetables tonight." The kids were tiny things with twiglike limbs, scabs on their faces and huge eyes full of wonder. They looked up at Edmund mutely from their nest in their mother's clothes, and he felt a lump in his throat.

"You shouldn't have given that to her," Orion said when Edmund rejoined him. "She's only going to spend it on rum."

"She will do no such thing. She's a mother. She will put the weal of her children first."

"Hah! You obviously have not met many womenfolk if you think that squeezing out a few children turns them into saints. Sometimes Rat mothers kill and eat their own babies, you know."

"I do not believe it."

"The world does not care what you believe. The world just _is. _And it's true, you know. In times of famine or overcrowding, when there's not enough food for her children, the Rat mother will eat her young. She takes their nutrients back into her body so she can keep herself alive and have more children in a later, more bountiful season. It's a very efficient, ruthless form of recycling. More proof that Aslan made the beasts. It took a Cat's mind to come up with something like that!"

Edmund was horrified. "Aslan would not make it so. He is the very embodiment of mercy and compassion."

Orion was clearly enjoying himself. "Oh? Well, let me tell you something about Lions, My Lord. Lions hail from the savannahs of L'biyya. They fight amongst each other to control a harem of females. When a new male Lion takes over a harem, he kills and eats all the cubs fathered by the previous Lion so he doesn't have to raise them. Embodiment of mercy and compassion? Hah!"

This piece of news did not sit well with Edmund. He thought about it for a while, and said, "Well, perhaps that is how foreign Lions from L'biyya behave. Perhaps they are uncivilised and barbaric in other nations. But Our Lion, Aslan, is a Narnian Lion, and He truly is kind and gentle."

Orion shrugged. "If you say so, Sir. I wouldn't know, not being worthy enough to have met him."

In a dark corner of the market square there was a queer tent that caught Edmund's eye. The opening was obscured by a beaded curtain, and in front of it stood a veiled woman whose painted arms jangled with bangles and charms. As Edmund approached she called in a rich, musical voice, "Have your fortune told by a Yanter soothsayer, Sir! What is lying before you? Forewarned is forearmed!"

Edmund shook his head and was about to move on, when the woman said, "Ah! You have the face of a king! Noble blood is being in your veins, yes! The soothsayer knows."

Startled, Edmund stopped and looked at her.

"She knows who you are," Orion said sceptically. "She's seen you before; or she guessed that you're Narnian, and she knows the only Narnian humans are royalty."

"If she be a charlatan, she hath a good act." Edmund drew close to the woman. "I am a just man, Madam. I believe not in rewarding deceit. If thou tellest my fortune and makest me believe it, I shall pay thee. Else I shall leave thee empty-handed. Have we an agreement?"

The soothsayer tilted her head to one side. After a few moments she said, "Yes, yes. You are the honest man. You will keep this agreement. Give to me your hand and I shall read from it your secrets."

Edmund complied. The woman gripped his palm, held it close to her face and stared at it hard with her shining black eyes.

"I am seeing the past. I am seeing the boy who is parted from his mother and father. The boy who comes to this world through door of clothes."

Edmund exchanged a glance with Orion.

"The boy has a light inside his soul. It is shining bright, yes. But now the boy is angry, lost. He is feeling pain inside, and jealousy. The clouds are coming around his heart and the light cannot shine. It is dark. He is losing his way. Now he walks under shadow and cannot find the straight path. The woman finds him. The woman touches the boy, cuts him, puts poison inside him. He loses his way. But there is blood. The Lion's blood. The knife. The table. The boy is washed in Lion's blood and his light shines again. His wound is healed. But the poison leaves behind this scar. Now the boy's heart is scarred. It cannot be whole again."

Edmund was still, eyes narrowed as he listened, rapt.

"Now the boy is a man. A crown is on his head. He is the king. But still the scar is hurting him. Now the boy travels far, hunting, fighting a war, but the pain cannot be left behind. The shadow follows him and the light is dying. The man is looking for Lion's blood, in his dreams, in his waking, searching, but the Lion is not there to help him. Now the man sees much pain, much death and suffering. The man swings his sword and sheds blood, but he feels the sword cutting inside his own self. The man's heart is heavy. The sword is heavy. The crown is heavy. Too heavy, all this. He is sick of everything. Now the man comes back to his home. This is his past. And now I am looking his future.

"The man is going on a journey. Behind him there are swords, in front of him there are swords. He is alone. His journey is long and hard. But now he finds a Lion. The Lion makes his light to shine again. And if his light is to shine again, the swords will not cut the man, and the journey is complete."

The woman released Edmund's hands. "Well, Sir. I have now read your fortune. Is it worth a payment?"

Edmund nodded slowly. "Yea, Madam, it is." He frowned. "Didst thou say I would find the Lion on this journey?"

"This is what the hand said."

"And the light would shine again."

"Yes. But there is no guarantee. Also no refund."

Edmund nodded. "Orion, give unto this lady a couple of crescents from thy purse."

Orion made a spluttering protest, but he handed the coin over. As they walked away he grumbled about how Edmund would make a beggar of him by giving all his coin away to alcoholic She-Goats and cheating fortune-tellers. Edmund was not truly listening, his heart full of all he had just heard.

Now the soothsayer's words were sinking in, he was beginning to feel light and free, as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It was true he had felt lost and unhappy. He hadn't found a sense of purpose in the northern lands. On the contrary, the ugliness of war had made things even worse. If what the soothsayer said were true and he was going off again on a journey, and this time Aslan would be waiting for him at the end… and the light would return! Oh, what a glad thought. He knew not if the Yanter woman's prophecy was real, but at least now he had a task to do. He had felt so powerless before, drifting aimlessly, with no idea of where to begin. Now things would be different. He had a plan.

"King Edmund! You haven't heard a word I've said, have you, My Lord?"

"I beg thy pardon, Orion. I was meditating on this journey the soothsayer mentioned."

"Henceforth you shall be known as King Edmund the Deaf."

A shadow fell over them. By instinct, Edmund's head snapped up and his hand found the hilt of his sword, but it was only a messenger from Cair Paravel. The Pigeon landed and executed a graceful bow, flaring her wings.

"My Lord King Edmund," she chirped, "I bear a message from the High King. Ye are summoned to an urgent council meeting at Cair Paravel. A matter before the council requires your immediate attention."

"I see," replied Edmund. "I thank thee. We shall make haste to Cair Paravel."

The Pigeon bowed again and took off, her smooth grey wings flapping furiously.

"Fate works quickly," Orion said. "It seems you shall have your journey soon, My Lord."

"Let us hope so." Edmund turned his face to the east and began the walk back to the castle.


	5. The Tisroc's Mission

In the enormous Grand Palace of Tashbaan, the Tisroc, Son of Tash, rested his copiously proportioned body on a couch of velvet and satin, which groaned beneath his weight. Strains of dulcet music drifted in the air, mingling with the fragrances of innumerable perfumes. Extending one jewel-encrusted hand, the Tisroc gestured impatiently at a slave-girl, who promptly shovelled a clump of candied swans' tongues into his mouth.

"Well, Grand Vizier," said the Tisroc through his mouthful of tongues, "what diversions have you in store for Us this day?"

The Grand Vizier was an elderly man clad in a silken _salwar kameez _and swathed in masses of embroidered scarves. He sported a long white beard and had a face rather like that of a greasy vulture. Those who knew his personality thought his appearance suited him well. He bestirred himself with much ostentatious rustling and clinking of expensive jewellery and said, "O glorious Tisroc, a most stimulating array of entertainments has been arranged for Your Worshipfulness this day."

"Pray, not those fat dancing girls from Patnay again." The irony of describing anyone else as fat did not quite strike the Tisroc.

"Certainly not, Exalted One. They were rebuked, advised to take a slimming diet and sent home."

"Good. We cannot abide indolence and laziness." The Tisroc gaped, allowing another slave-girl to stuff his maw with cloying sweetmeats.

"Before today's diversions are discussed, Your Luminosity, Your humble servant begs leave to raise a small matter."

"Speak, then."

"It has come to Your humble slave's attention that Tarkaan Faris Sayid Haidar ibn Saif banu Krais is even now on his way to the Grand Palace to seek an audience with Your Superiority."

The Tisroc was aware that when the Grand Vizier said, "It has come to Your humble slave's attention," what he truly meant was, "My spies discovered this days ago and I have been plotting to turn this knowledge to my advantage without being indiscreet." To mention such a thing would have been most uncouth, however, so the Tisroc merely said, "Quite right. As a matter of fact, he is here on Our invitation."

"May Your humble servant enquire as to the purpose of his visit?"

"The Northern barbarians are sending a trade delegation to Calormen led by one of their kings. El-mund the Just or something they call him. We have appointed Haidar ibn Saif to be this El-mund's escort during his stay in our fair land. He shall be dispatched to meet this barbarian king this very day."

"Ah. Is Tarkaan Ibn Saif the most capable man in this regard, Your Magnificence? He is a most eccentric and unpredictable character. Some have called him unsuitable for Tarkaanship."

"He is a little rough around the edges, perhaps. We must make allowances. He was born in a small village in some backwater region, We believe. He has been most useful in keeping the peace. None can deny his prowess in battle, nor his diplomatic skills. And he is a skilled poet. If only Prince Rabadash would learn from his example."

"And yet, where do his loyalties lie? He is, after all, a R'biyyani, and those barbaric tribes are known to prefer their savage rule to the enlightenment of Calormene civilisation. Indeed, many of his companions are disgruntled minorities with implied connections to riots and uprisings. Hath not the poet said:

_One who keeps a scorpion in his bed_

_Is begging for the sting."_

"His connections are useful. He is able to control the rabble. They consider him one of the people, a true son of the soil. As for his loyalty, well, can one truly know where anyone's loyalties lie, O Grand Vizier? Hath not the poet said:

_Keep thy friends in arm's reach_

_And thine enemies yet closer."_

The Tisroc looked at the Grand Vizier as he spoke thusly, and it was not lost on the discerning in the room that the Tisroc kept the Grand Vizier closer to Himself than anyone else.

"Your Holiness has rewarded him well for his efforts, raising him from lowly birth to Tarkaanship. Yet how has he shown his gratitude? Well does Your humble servant remember the day he first appeared in Tashbaan, dressed like a beggar. And when Your Sovereignty awarded him fine clothes and jewels, he continued to dress like a vagrant, claiming that he had sold your gifts to purchase bread for the poor. A ridiculous excuse, masking a clearly calculated insult."

"No harm was meant by it. The R'biyyani are far too blunt and unsubtle to craft sophisticated slights."

"There is also the fact that his morality is in question. There are rumours that he consorts with dancing-boys, drunkards and other unsavoury characters."

"He is a public figure. It is natural that he should attract smears and slander. We would not put stock in such gossip." The Tisroc suspected that half of those rumours were seeded by the Grand Vizier himself.

"And we have not even touched on his religious beliefs. All R'biyyani are fanatics. They put their One before the glorious Tisroc, Son of Tash."

"Enough, Grand Vizier. He has served Us faithfully. We cannot help but wonder at your reservations. Perhaps you feel threatened."

"Your Beneficence, Your humble slave has no quarrel with the boy. Your servant's only desire is to see Your kingdom prosper."

"No more of this. We have made up Our mind."

"Very well, Your Worthiness."

Presently a servant appeared at the great golden doors and announced the arrival of the Tarkaan Ibn Saif.

"Ah, the man of the hour. Bid him enter," the Tisroc said.

Tarkaan Haidar ibn Saif entered the chamber with only two attendants, typical of the casual attitude that so vexed the Grand Vizier. Out of deference to the Tisroc, the Tarkaan had garbed himself in an azure, silken _salwar kameez _and matching scarf_, _though the plainness of his tunic's embroidery and his lack of jewels were conspicuous in the splendid Grand Palace. The Tarkaan himself was a young man of average height with a mane of wild, curly hair bleached by the sun so that it shone a rich brown under the light. His skin was burnt a deep brown, too. He had a handsome face with delicate features that looked slightly amused, as though they were enjoying a private joke. He possessed those striking eyes common among the R'biyyani: smouldering black, with long, dark lashes and arrogantly drooping lids, all under high, arched eyebrows. His nose was rather thin and sharp, like a knife-blade, complementing his high cheekbones. His lips were strikingly red, full and pouty. Strong and graceful was his gait, and instead of the pointed slippers favoured by the noble classes, he had apparently trekked through the city with bare feet, a fact that would no doubt irk the Grand Vizier.

Falling to his knees and prostrating himself before the Tisroc, he said, "Hail, O Tisroc. May You live forever." His companions did likewise.

The Tisroc gestured magnanimously. "Rise, O Haidar ibn Saif. We note with approval that you have ended the unrest in the provinces east of Azim Bazda without open war." The Tisroc nodded significantly at the Grand Vizier.

"A meritorious achievement," the Grand Vizier said. "More so if it was accomplished without shoes."

Ibn Saif smiled. "I like to feel the earth beneath my feet," he said.

The Grand Vizier winced. The boy had used the first-person pronoun 'I' in the presence of the Tisroc, rather than the more polite formulation, 'Your humble so-and-so.' It was a vulgar and improper form of speech, betraying base birth. Anyone could see the boy did not belong at court. Except, apparently, the Tisroc.

"There has been a transfer of power in the North," said the Tisroc. "The kingdom of beasts is now ruled by four humans, and their reign is said to have made the country prosperous and powerful. We desire to cultivate a relationship with Narnia and exploit it to profit our people."

The Grand Vizier knew that when the Tisroc said "To profit our people," what he truly meant was, "To profit my own extravagant and wasteful tastes, my people be damned," but it would have been deeply ill-mannered, not to mention suicidal, to say so.

Ibn Saif said, "Pardon my lack of understanding, but if the Tisroc desires the wealth of the North, why does He not simply take it for Himself? All know that the sorceress is dead."

"It is said that Narnia under the rule of these four regents is more powerful than it was under the White Witch. There are stories of the Narnians being aided by Aslan, one of their gods. Nothing but superstition, no doubt, but it seems they have powerful magic on their side. It would be prudent to restrain action until we have more intelligence."

Said the Grand Vizier, "Our agents find it difficult to operate in Narnia, for they are humans in a land of brutes. Nevertheless they have discovered that the barbarians are in a precarious position. Their cold season will be upon them soon and they have a deficit of supplies. Their northern regions are disloyal. We might be in a position to pressure Narnia, had we more information."

The Tisroc gestured. "That is where you come in. One of the Narnian kings is leading a delegation here, officially to conduct trade and foster stronger ties between our nations. Unofficially, of course, we shall be spying on each other. You will befriend this El-mund and escort him during his sojourn in Calormen. Find out all you can about him, his fellow rulers and the situation in his country, particularly their military and economic state, as well as what magical protection they possess."

Haidar blinked slowly. His arched eyebrows rose, making his hooded eyes look more arrogant still. "Do You mean to say that You recalled me from chasing bandits and quashing uprisings so that I might… play the host? Befriend this foreign king? Take him sightseeing? I must say, it does not sound very exciting."

The Grand Vizier bristled. "One does not simply reject the commands of the Tisroc, may He live forever. And yet, perhaps you raise a valid point. This mission would seem ill-suited to your talents. Perhaps it would be best if you were dispatched to chase ill-behaved peasants, while a more sophisticated diplomat were sent to entreat with the Narnian king."

The Tisroc said, "We have already discussed this. We do not require a sophisticated diplomat, we require Haidar ibn Saif. He is genuinely likeable, a quality which many seasoned statesmen lack." The Tisroc looked at the Grand Vizier again, before returning his gaze to Ibn Saif. "It is precisely your lack of sophistication and air of naiveté which might succeed in causing the Narnian to lower his guard where a politician would only make him more suspicious. If it is action you desire, you will of course be taking the king on hunting expeditions and other tours. If you wish, you may find sport chasing outlaws in some of the wilder regions, taking care to ensure that no harm comes to the barbarian. Your actions in this endeavour may well alter the future of Calormen. Consider it a challenge."

Ibn Saif folded his arms. "Very well," he said. "I have never met a barbarian king before. It might interesting. With the permission of the Exalted Tisroc, I shall leave this very instant to make my preparations."

"May the gods favour you," said the Tisroc, waving Ibn Saif away.

Ibn Saif bowed, swirled and exited the chamber, followed by his companions.

"A good man," the Tisroc said softly, almost to himself. "I am sure he will get on well with the northern king. A shame, really…"

The Grand Vizier did not ask what was a shame. He knew there was more to this appointment than met the eye. The Tisroc was lazy, vain and gluttonous, but he was not stupid. He kept many secrets, and his plans always concealed more than they revealed. Haidar ibn Saif was to be pitied, for the Tisroc's favour was a two-edged sword. The Tisroc was an excellent player of _shahmat, _and he was never afraid to sacrifice a valuable piece, however useful, to keep the King safe.


	6. The Guide

They departed Cair Paravel shortly before daybreak. King Edmund rode with a retinue of two hundred of his personal troops, a train large enough to deter most attackers, yet not so large as to be mistaken for an invading force by the Calormenes. It would take them four or five days to reach their destination, as they were limited by the speed of their slowest units, the supply carts and bears.

Edmund travelled at the head of the procession. To his left rode his first standard-bearer, a centaur bearing the arms of Cair Paravel: four golden crowns above a crimson lion rampant, on a throne of seashells. To his right, a leopard carried Edmund's personal arms: a golden balance with a broken wand in its left scale and a crowned heart in its right. Orion rode close to Edmund's side. There were aerial and ground scouts – hawks and hares – ranging a few miles ahead and to either side of them.

Long ago, High King Peter had taught Edmund a valuable lesson in governance. Peter had advised Edmund to spend personal time with each beast who attended him, seeking their counsel, asking their opinions, learning their individual tastes and personalities. It was advice Edmund had taken to heart, and it had served him well in many a campaign. Today Edmund chose to ride with his physician and trusted counsellor, a large brown Raven named Gwendolyn, who perched on the edge of his saddle, clinging tightly with her talons.

"I can't abide riding Horses," she said. "All this rattling up and down makes me giddy. I don't know how you can put up with this for hours at a time."

Trefoil, the spirited bay mare who was carrying Edmund, snorted huffily. "I have a very steady trot," she said.

"In that case, I would hate to ride a Horse with an unsteady one," Gwendolyn retorted.

"I would've thought you'd be used to travelling in rough conditions, a bird like yourself."

"I fly short distances, in clement weather. I'm a Raven, not a Wandering Albatross."

"Oh, are you a Raven? I always thought you were a Crow. Well, I suppose they're the same thing, really."

"I feel the same about Horses and Ponies," observed Gwendolyn drily.

In the dim light of dawn, they rode out of the Southern Gate of Cair Paravel and followed Glasswater Creek as it flowed southwest through golden-brown fields. There were no roads here, which slowed their progress even further. Edmund twisted in his saddle and watched his troops streaming behind him like a second river, a torrent of fur and steel mimicking Glasswater's flow. Rays of light scythed through the darkness over the Eastern Ocean and caressed the spires of Cair Paravel. Edmund wondered if Lucy's little face was pressed against one of those windows.

As the sun rose in the sky, they were able to move a little more swiftly, as the beasts travelling on foot could more easily spy a safe path. Trefoil quickened her trot and shook her mane out in the crisp breeze. She was a pretty mare and her beautifully styled hair had drawn much attention from the stallions.

"What are thy thoughts on this sojourn of ours, Gwendolyn?" asked Edmund.

"May I speak frankly?"

"Yea."

"I find it strange that the High King would ask Your Highness to leave on a quest so soon after your return to Cair Paravel."

"A very good point," Orion said. "I'd wager quite a few beasts are wondering the same thing. Not two days back from the freezing North and now we are dispatched to the burning South. Is the High King trying to freeze us or boil us?"

Said Edmund, "The High King knoweth I am one to get the task done. Our relationship with Calormen is one of great import. It needs must be handled with tact if we are to secure their help during the coming winter. He requested me especially for this duty."

"Secure their help?" Orion said. "If they do anything but take us captive and sacrifice us to one of their stone gods, we should count ourselves lucky."

"You know better than that, Orion," Gwendolyn said. "The Calormene culture has its flaws, like ours, but they are not savages. They are an ancient civilisation, and wise."

"If they are so wise, why do they wear tea-towels on their heads?"

"I hardly think you are in a position to criticise anyone else's manner of dress, Orion, as you appear to be wearing half an ostrich on your own head."

"Ho," said Orion, tweaking his feathered hat. "I'll have you know that this hat is all the rage among the ladies. Or at least, those who were not born in the Stone Age. You would not know fashion if it bit you on the tail."

"Most amusing," Edmund interrupted, "but this be a serious matter. Are ye both of the opinion that the High King harboureth some hidden purpose?"

Orion said, "Well, the whole city knows that Your Highness has done nothing but quarrel with the High King since your return. The fact that he's now sending you out of the country is a complete coincidence, no doubt. And it was so kind of him to send some of his own warriors along to bolster your forces. I'm sure they won't spy on everything you do and report back to him each day or anything like that."

"How cynical thou art."

"He is right, Your Highness," said Gwendolyn. "The High King may be your brother and dear to you, but he is also a ruler and a politician. You must not let your guard down around him."

"The old Crow agrees with me?" Orion said. "I think this horse-riding is addling my brains. I am having hallucinations."

"Am I to doubt mine own brother?" Edmund said. "Nay, I would sooner die."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," muttered Orion darkly.

"Your Highness, an observation," said Gwendolyn. "On the field you are a tactician, but in the council room you are naïve. Perhaps it would help to think of politics as a kind of battlefield. Instead of armies, you must move laws and policies. In place of swords and arrows, your weapons are words. You must secure your objective by positioning your forces and responding to the enemy's movements. You need informants, contacts."

"Contacts?" Edmund frowned. "Thou speakest of spies. I will not stoop so low. I prefer an honourable approach, a face-to-face battle. I have no use for those who deal in secrets and skulk in shadows."

"Your Highness, would you go into a battle without scouts?"

"Certainly not. That would be akin to riding blind."

"And you do ride blind on the battlefield of politics. Shunning the use of informants would be like unto a general shunning the use of scouts. You have a duty to make use of every tool at your disposal, not merely to yourself, but to your subjects. Narnia already has many spies in our neighbouring nations."

"High King Peter would not do such a thing without informing me."

"Did you ask him? The High King knows you. He knows you have lofty ideals and dislike getting your hands sullied. He would probably keep it from you, reasoning that you would prefer not to know. I can guarantee you that Narnia has spies for one simple reason."

"And what is that?"

"Narnia still exists. We have not been conquered by our neighbours. You have been content to think that a nation's defence lies in its soldiers. In truth, battles are frequently won or lost even before the armies assemble. The first line of Narnian defence is our intelligence. Whoever controls the flow of information controls the fate of our nation. We spy on our neighbours as surely as they spy on us. No doubt the High King thought to leave the military intelligence to you while he handled the political intelligence. Now, the time has come for you to assume more power of your own. Aslan intended you to be a well-rounded and skilful leader, a king in your own right, not a lackey to your brother or anyone else."

"What thou sayest hath the ring of truth. It appealeth to my sense of reason. And yet, it troubleth me that it must be so."

"That's what your advisors are here for, Your Highness," Orion put in. "We'll do the sneaking and scheming and plotting needed to keep you safe. You know, the stuff which your conscience is too delicate to permit you to do yourself."

"I thank thee, Orion. I appreciate the sentiment, mocking or not. So, you both feel that this journey to Calormen is a ruse?"

"Not a ruse," said Orion. "We do need to entreat with Calormen. It just happened to be a convenient way to get you out of Cair Paravel. A happy coincidence. No doubt the High King jumped at the chance."

Edmund felt hurt and betrayed that his brother could be so calculating as to send him away for political reasons. Could it truly be so? Whatever his faults, Peter was an honourable and dutiful man. He would not act in a lowly manner. However, he would do whatever he felt was necessary to keep Narnia safe. Did that include preventing Edmund from exercising his royal powers? It very well might. The two often disagreed.

"If the High King sent me away for another reason," Edmund said slowly, "what might that reason be?"

Gwendolyn ruffled her brown-black feathers. "If you had informants in Cair Paravel, we might know for certain. A small number of your troops remain at the castle, but they are not privy to council meetings. We may hazard a guess, however. What did you and the High King quarrel over before you left?"

A feeling of dread settled on Edmund. "The fate of the northern lands," he said. "The High King wished to make war over them."

"Then it is likely he is making his preparations even now."

"Trefoil, halt!" Edmund shouted. The bay mare jerked beneath Edmund before slowing her trot and coming to a stop. Edmund's standard-bearers and Bucephalus, the Horse who carried Orion, shot ahead for a couple of yards before stopping also.

"What are you doing?" Orion called.

"Turn around, Trefoil!" Edmund commanded. "We return to Cair Paravel at once!"

"What?" said Orion. "Have you taken leave of your wits?"

"On the contrary, I have just recovered them, thanks to the good counsel of Gwendolyn and thee," said Edmund angrily, his chest heaving. "If my brother reckoneth to send me away so he may start a war I disapprove of behind my back, he is sorely mistaken!"

Gwendolyn shook her head. "Your Highness, this is exactly the sort of rash action I was trying to counsel you against. What would you achieve by returning to Cair Paravel now?"

"I will confront the High King."

"And then? He is the _High_ King, is he not? His authority supersedes yours. Therefore, you would accomplish nothing by opposing him directly. He would simply do as he pleased. Meantime, he would castigate you for failing to complete the task he assigned you. The Calormenes would be furious that the king they were promised would pay them a royal visit had decided to spurn them. They would bear a grudge against us for the next fifty years. There would be no trade agreement, which means no food entering Narnia, and if a substantial portion of our population starves during the next war, a good part of that blame will be placed on you. Is that what you want?"

"I…" What Edmund wanted more than anything was to see High King Peter and demand that he stop playing these games. But Gwendolyn's words penetrated the angry fog that shrouded his mind. "Nay. Thou hast the right of it. But what should I do? I would not have the northern lands despoiled. So many will die among our own troops as well as among the northern giants and dwarves. We cannot win such a war without years of bloodshed. This may yet be resolved peacefully."

"You must play the game," Orion said. "Let's go to Calormen and get this business with over with as soon as possible. Then we can return to Cair Paravel."

"In the meantime," said Gwendolyn, "is there anyone at Cair Paravel whom you may confide in?"

It came to him in an instant. "Queen Lucy!" he said. Why had he not thought of it before? "She is well-loved and has influence in the capitol. She may be able to delay the High King's scheme. I shall write to her anon."

"Good," said Gwendolyn. "In addition, she may keep you informed of the happenings in the Council and the capitol. A very useful contact. You see, Your Highness, you do have some connections. You simply have not made use of them. A few more well-placed friends and you could expand your sphere of influence."

"Let's get moving," Orion said. "The rest of our troops will be on us soon. They don't need to hear our conversation."

They resumed riding, Edmund feeling rather wearier and grimmer than he had before the dawn. How sordid and unpleasant the world of politics was. People sneaking behind each other's backs, scheming and conniving… by nature he found such things distasteful. Still, if he were to be a good king he would have to be a politician, and perhaps that meant getting his hands dirty from time to time. Perhaps his ideas about fairness and openness were unrealistic.

In another two hours, when they had ridden a little over half the length of the Glasswater, there was a disturbance on the river's surface. The glassy waters churned furiously before withdrawing to reveal three unearthly damsels who seemed to be part of the river itself. Their skin was of metallic silver-blue hue and imprinted with faint scale-shaped marks. They were clad in swirling aquamarine raiment that looked to be spun from living water, flowing and rippling about their bodies, changing from blue to green to clear and flashing like diamonds where the sun caught it. They had webbed hands and wore necklaces of shells, and sported crowns of water-weed in their green hair.

"Hail, O Naiads," called Edmund. "Rare it is to see the daughters of Glasswater Creek roused from their submarine slumber. We have not disturbed ye, we hope."

The closest Naiad spoke in a voice like a trickling stream. "Hail, O Edmund, King of Narnia. Rare is it also to see the Edmund the Just on our banks. We had heard ye were not to be seen in Cair Paravel for nigh unto a year. As to whether ye have disturbed us, the reply must be yes and no."

"State your grievance, Daughter of Water, and we shall redress it if it be within our power to do so."

"Sir, my name is Thespia, and these are my younger sisters Eloxamine and Agatea. Long have we dwelt in these waters, for ages too numerous for any beast living to remember. We played on these banks before Jadis the Impostor came to Narnia, and in those days our home was clear and pure. When the Witch cast her spell of endless winter, the river froze, and we slept for a century until Aslan returned and we were liberated. We have observed the prosperity of Narnia with great joy, but in latter years we have had cause for sorrow. For now that ye four great lights sit in Cair Paravel, many beasts and men from sundry nations have gathered about ye to profit from your wisdom and bask in your glory. And the city of Paraveldon flows to bursting and spills over its ancient bounds, multiplying many times over. And as the fortunes of the city grow, so too do the fortunes of our home wane. For Men and Beasts alike have abused Glasswater Creek by building dams to trap and disrupt the flow of its waters, by harvesting fish and aquatic life to such an extent that hardly a thing remains, by dumping their refuse with reckless abandon so that what was once cleansing and pure is now foul and toxic to the touch. Wherefore all living things that dwell within these waters are suffering sorely, and their hurt multiplies daily. And if this state of affairs should continue, it will be an ill thing for all beings who live and breathe in these parts. For at present only the denizens of Glasswater Creek suffer, but if the creek should die and fail to nourish the land, then all things should suffer, the residents of Cair Paravel most of all. Wherefore we beseech you, O King Edmund, whose justice is spoken of throughout this blessed domain, to do whatever is in your power to remedy the despoilment of our home."

Edmund was moved by the Naiad's words. "Thou hast spoken truly and from the heart, O Thespia. Narnia was given to us in trust by the Lion to safeguard it and promote the weal and happiness of all its inhabitants. Wherefore it seemeth to us that the despoilment of your home is a matter of utmost concern. We would see to this matter ourselves, were we not even now en route to Calormen in pursuit of urgent business. We shall this very day dispatch a messenger to Cair Paravel informing the High King and Queens of your plight and advising them to act immediately."

Thespia bowed her head. "We are in your debt, O Edmund, King of Narnia, and we shall owe you a debt greater still if you can spare our home from these ravages. As a token of our gratitude, please accept this." Raising her shimmering hands to her hair, the Naiad removed a crown of water-weed. "This is a valuable object among those of our kind. There are no Naiads in Calormen, but if you should present this token to any Talking sea-creature or Water spirit, I think aid of some kind shall be given you."

Edmund took the wreath from the Naiad's fingers. It was soothingly cool on his skin and quivered as though the river's waters ran through it.

"We thank thee, Madam," he said gravely. "A fine gift."

"We are not the only ones to have been affected by the expansion of the towns and cities. Our friends the Dryads have suffered also. Perhaps they already know of your coming. If you travel within the woods, mayhap they shall seek an audience with you, as we did."

"We shall watch for them. We thank you."

The Naiads disappeared back within the river, and Edmund's party rode on. As the Naiads had predicted, they did encounter a delegation of Dryads while passing through a densely wooded area. The Wood spirits' complaints were similar to the Naiads'. As Paraveldon and the surrounding towns had grown, Men and Beasts had been cutting down trees and clearing more and more of the woods. The Dryads had been forced to retreat from their traditional lands. Edmund promised to help them, and as thanks they offered him a wreath of oak leaves.

"A fine day's diplomacy," Orion said afterwards. "You have promised to solve two separate territorial disputes, and in exchange you received a twig and a bunch of weeds. Excellent work. We shall make a politician of you yet."

"These are no ordinary plants," Edmund said. "They are symbols of good favour from powerful spirits."

"Oh, right, they're _magic _twigs. How powerful are these spirits, anyway, if they can't deal with a few fishermen and woodcutters without your help?"

"Leave him be, Orion," said Gwendolyn. "He is doing well. And do not underestimate the usefulness of leaves. I have saved lives with tinctures and poultices many times. There is power even in ordinary plants, and these are gifts from the spirit-kind."

"The only leaves I have time for are tea-leaves and catnip."

"We shall see how you feel when I am patching up your wounds."

"Hah! I don't need your witchery. If I'm slow enough to let myself be cut by some lumbering oaf, I deserve any pain I get."

"Indeed. You deserve any pain you get, and still more."

"You judge me unfavourably, but you still don't know half the wicked things I've done. Remind me to tell you of them someday."

"I wait with bated breath. My imagination has already supplied most of the details."

In a copse not far from the banks of Glasswater Creek they stopped their march for lunch. It was almost midday and the late autumn sun swam in the watery blue sky, shedding its warm light. A ragtag mob of beggars swarmed the outskirts of their camp, and Edmund decreed that food would be available to any who asked for it, despite the protestations of his advisors, who felt that their troops needed all the supplies they had. Edmund bit off a hunk of hard bread and chewed it thoughtfully, composing a letter to Lucy in his head. Soon they were on the move again.

* * *

Night daubed the Desert in muted colours as Tarkaan Haidar ibn Saif's people moved beneath the scraped-out sky, their prized R'biyyani horses crawling at snail's pace on the shifting sands. Jadda rode at Haidar's side, as always. He was apprehensive about meeting this northern king. It was clear the Tisroc had his own reasons for sending them on this mission. Were they riding into the maw of danger? Had the Tisroc finally tired of them, reckoning they had outlived their usefulness, and decided to do away with them for good? The game they played had always been a perilous one. Somehow, Haidar had managed to keep one step ahead of death for all these years, but he was not immortal. No one was. Jadda had learnt that long ago.

Jadda was born in Torqval, a troubled state annexed by Calormen only sixty-five years earlier. Many Torqvali still dreamed of independence, and in response the Tisroc's regime had only ground them harder, brutally suppressed any stirrings of dissent. Public flogging of alleged traitors and subversives was commonplace, and it was not rare to see corpses hanging in public squares with their crimes printed on signs in both Calormene and Torqvali script (the only time the Torqvali language was seen in public). Often the police would appear in the middle of the night and spirit away an entire family, and afterwards the house would stand abandoned, splintered doors hanging off hinges and windows staring blankly in grim warning.

Growing up, Jadda had been spared the sight of all this because his grandfather was a traitor to his own people. Or, looking at it another way, his grandfather was a pragmatic man who saw that the Torqvali had two bleak choices: to resist the Calormenes and be destroyed, or to submit to the rule of their new masters and survive. Jadda's grandfather had loved the culture of Torqval too much to see it completely eradicated, and so he had made a devil's deal. Like many others, he had sworn loyalty to his Calormene overlords and co-operated with them in their quest to colonise Torqval. He had preached moderation and harmony between Calormene and Torqvali, and assisted the Calormene police in hunting down those of his fellow Torqvali who were too militant, too rebellious, too fundamentalist or too revolutionary.

The Calormenes were nothing if not generous to those who submitted to the superiority of their civilisation, and so Jadda's grandfather had become a wealthy, respected and important man, one of Torqval's new ruling elite. He had received a grand house, slaves, a mountain of gold, a title, and most precious of all, a concession that the Torqvali language and history would be included in the state's curriculum (pending Ministry of Education approval). All in all, not a bad exchange for one man's integrity.

Jadda's father, Evez, was no fool. He knew that their family's rise to prominence was fraught with danger, for the Tisroc's favour was a twin-edged sword. Sometimes the Tisroc raised a man up, sometimes he cast a man down, all without rhyme or reason. Staying on the Tisroc's good side was a game of chance with constantly shifting rules, in which the only winning move was not to play (assuming one had a choice). In Evez's place, a more cautious man would have decided to take the winnings and bow out of the game. Many of the Torqvali elite, smelling trouble and not trusting the Tisroc's generosity to last, were quietly selling off their goods and using their wealth to get out of Torqval and into more stable regions. Evez, however, had inherited his father's unreasonable love of his homeland and unwillingness to leave the soil of his ancestors. And so he stayed behind and kept playing his father's game, only this time with raised stakes.

For a time, fortune favoured Evez. The family prospered, becoming the centre of Torqvali social life. Jadda was born into the lap of luxury, more Calormene than Torqvali in his upbringing. He went to the best schools and learnt to read, write and speak the Calormene tongue better than most ethnic Calormenes themselves. His friends were the scions of wealthy Calormene and Calormen-loyal Torqvali families. He learnt by heart all the reasons that the Calormene invasion of Torqval was the best thing to happen to the Torqvali. (Indeed, it was not so much an "invasion" as it was the Tisroc gently stretching out the hand of friendship to embrace his Torqvali brothers and sisters.) Prior to the occupation, the Torqvali had been ignorant and backward, cut off from the rest of the world. The Calormenes had given them literature, science, technology, roads, schools, hospitals, and all the benefits of civilisation. Certainly, many thousands of Torqvali had died during colonisation, but that was because the Torqvali themselves were too rebellious and foolhardy to quietly accept what was best for them. And besides, that was the price of progress. Anyone who couldn't see this was a barbarian.

He studied hard, travelled widely and won many friends and admirers with his good looks, clever tongue and his family's prestige. Their stately home in Torqval was frequented by Tarkaans and Tarkheenas, a star-studded ensemble of nobility. He could still picture his parents playing the perfect hosts, radiant, witty and elegant. He had considered his family loyal citizens of Calormen, and he'd expected their empire would look after them in return.

And then Evez's luck ran out.

Jadda never found out what actually happened, if his father had really been involved in subversive activities, or if his family's wealth and power had irked some haughty Tarkaan who'd pulled a few strings to teach the uppity Torqvali their place. All he knew was that one day when he came home from college, his parents had been arrested and declared traitors, and his family was now homeless. The state seized everything his family owned and turned Jadda and his sisters out onto the street.

There was no help to be had from their former friends and admirers, for no one wished to associate with a traitor's offspring. Their family was dishonoured forevermore. No noble would be seen with Evez's treacherous spawn in public, nor would the poor and downtrodden sympathise with the elite brats who had lived the high life for years by spitting on the common Torqvali and putting on airs, and were now getting what they richly deserved. In one day, Jadda and his sisters went from being part of Torqval's cossetted and pampered upper crust to poorer than the meanest pauper.

Jadda now found himself rethinking his prior convictions. It had been easy to see that the Calormene occupation of Torqval was a good thing when his family had been favoured and he'd been young and carefree. Now he and his sisters spent their days living in fear, seeking shelter in filthy, abandoned buildings as their stomachs burned from hunger and their bones poked out of their bodies. They received word that their father had been executed, and, a year later, that their mother had died in prison. Selfishly, horribly, Jadda was glad that his mother had died before he'd had to face her. He knew the kinds of things that happened in Calormene prisons, especially to female prisoners, and he didn't want to see his proud mother broken. The injustice of the Tisroc's regime seared him – it had never seemed to matter when it was _other _people rounded up and imprisoned, because they were bad people, but now it was _his family _– and each day as he curled up into a ball with a soiled crust of bread or some other morsel he'd scavenged from the tip, he swore revenge on those who'd destroyed his family, his home, his life. Tash damn them all, even the Tisroc! He'd believed their lies, believed that Calormen cared about him, believed that he was one of them. Now he saw their poisonous falsehoods, too late, too late.

It was around this time that the radical scholar Dharani translated a work by the Gaullian philosopher Éclair, entitled _Liberté et la Condition l'Homme, _into the Calormene tongue. It was an earthshaking work, like a breath of fresh air, which expounded strange ideas like _Man has rights, not because they are granted by gods or kings, but merely by virtue of his being born human, _or, _Just government is possible only with the consent of the governed. _The book spread like wildfire through the embattled resistances and underground movements of Calormen, becoming a rallying cry for all those who'd suffered under the Tisroc's rule. The palace declared the book foreign propaganda designed to undermine the harmony of Calormene society. Dharani was executed, copies of the book were burnt in great bonfires, and anyone found in possession of the manuscript was branded a security risk and taken in for questioning. The great machinery of the Calormene Empire, designed to protect Calormenes from their own thoughts and dreams, ground to life. The police hunted and tortured and washed the country clean of foreign influences by bathing it in the blood of their own citizens. But although books could be scorched and people could be killed, it was much harder to destroy an _idea._

Jadda had been wandering in the bazaar early one morning, hoping to scrounge a bite of food from a kind vendor, when a man had walked towards him with outstretched hand. Thinking it was some kind of charity, Jadda eagerly took what the man offered, and found, to his disappointment, that it was a scrap of paper. He was about to toss it away, when a warning written in Calormene and Torqvali caught his eye: DO NOT SHOW THIS PAPER TO THE POLICE. YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER. Intrigued, he read on. The very first sentence was: _Man is born free and none has the right to deprive him of his freedom: not gods, not other men, not religion, not state, not government._ The pamphlet continued: "Brothers and sisters of Torqval, a great wave of revolution is sweeping our country. The time for liberation from Calormene rule has come."

Jadda had taken the paper to the rundown slum where he and his sisters lived with the other homeless youths, and curled up in the dirty corner where he liked to lay in the shade. He paged through the pamphlet and something wonderful happened. As the words swam into his head, the burning hunger in his belly faded, replaced by a new hunger in his mind and heart. The words of the philosopher Éclair, rendered in Dharani's exquisite Calormene, stood out from the rest of the writing like gold dust in a handful of sand. He read the lines over and over again, tasting them, savouring them like portions of the finest pheasant. _Man owes allegiance first to his own conscience, before the writs of kings and gods. The measure of a just society is the freedom that the weakest members enjoy. As a ruler may replace his servants if they fail to perform their duties, so may the people replace their ruler if he fails to uphold his part. _The words became a holy chant for him, a prayer, a _mantra _like that repeated by the poet-saints of Shinth. Here, at last, someone had captured all his resentment and pain at the injustice of the Calormene Empire, speaking to it, soothing it, showing him a way out of his personal hell. He had to find the rest of the book.

He returned to the marketplace, searching for the man who'd handed him the paper. A day passed, then another. He forgot to look for food, so powerful was his longing for more of Éclair's words. When the burning in his belly grew too much and he fell to the ground from weakness, he lay on his side reciting the sentences he had learnt, the chant filling his mind until there was no room left for suffering. He began to see things lurking out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, there was nothing there. When he finally found the man he was looking for, he at first believed it was another mirage, until he stood right in front of the man, seeing every wiry grey-white hair on his chin, the rough stitching of his stained cotton _kurta, _smellingthe sour stench of sweat radiating off him. He had asked to learn more about Dharani, and that was how he was introduced to the resistance.

They met in a different place each fortnight, gathering by shadows and starlight. They wore masks so they could not see each other's faces. Their leader was a man cloaked and hooded who called himself Druzna, named for the star that appeared in blackest night to herald daybreak. He spoke in a low voice, in the guttural accent of northeast Torqval, asking for reports and giving them new assignments. As Jadda had a good memory and was known to be a street urchin, he was well suited to collecting intelligence. Druzna would look at him and say, "The warehouse beside the temple of Azaroth in the market district. From midday to the call for evening prayer. Observe how many guards there are, how they move, how they are armed, what they are carrying, anything else of interest." The next day Jadda would make his way to the street and sit in a corner with a begging bowl. No one would look twice at a beggar, for they were like flies: so numerous as to be invisible until they did something to annoy you. He would sit hunched over, disappearing into the brown background blur of the street, all the while watching and counting as his targets went about their business. Then he would report what he had learnt to Druzna.

He was never told what was done with the information he gathered, but it was not difficult to guess. A week after he spied on a warehouse he would hear gossip on the street about how weapons and gold had been stolen from the governor's personal stores. Or else he would hear about a company of guards ambushed and slaughtered by bandits on the new road the Tisroc was building. These were small victories, tiny droplets in the ocean of Calormen's power, but they were a beginning, and when he returned home to sleep in his patch of dust, he felt a deep peace settle on him for the first time since his parents had died. He was playing his own small part in bringing about the end of the Calormene occupation of Torqval. Sometimes in his dreams he could see the Tisroc cowering in fear and begging for forgiveness before Jadda killed him, and those dreams were the sweetest he'd had in years.

And then the Tisroc's men came for him.

They found him at the bazaar one day and dragged him away before anyone could protest. He yelled and struggled, but one of the police smashed Jadda's head with a sword-hilt, and Jadda went limp, squeezing his eyes shut against the eruption of pain in his skull. They tossed him a dark, slimy cell that stank of piss, shit, vomit and blood. They interrogated him, demanding that he tell them about the other members of the resistance.

The first day they beat him with iron bars, smashing most of the bones in his body. When they finally stopped, he crawled into a corner and curled into a ball, his face wet with tears and blood, wailing through the few broken teeth he had left. The second day they stripped him naked, shaved his head and held him against a wall while they took it in turns to rape him. He remembered his face being pressed against the cold stone of the cell. _I am not here. This is not happening. _The third day they cut off two of his fingers and held red-hot rods against his skin. _I am not here._ The fourth day… but what day was it? There was no sunlight or moonlight to mark the passing of time, only long periods of darkness punctured by unbearable agony. _This is not happening. _His head was submerged in a bucket of water. He thought they would let him drown, but they would never be so merciful. _I am not here. _Crack! They snapped his finger bones. _This is not happening. _He begged and pleaded, but he heard the hiss, smelt his flesh cooking. _Raise your hands, little lad. Let's play a game, little lad. Baba's gone to the bazaar, little lad. To buy you some sweets, little lad! _"Tell me the names of the traitors." "I don't know, I swear, have mercy, I beg you!" _Man is born free _"Aaaarrgh!" _and no one has the right _"Who is the leader of the resistance?" _to deprive him of his freedom _"Druzna! Druzna!" _not gods, not other men… no one… no one…_

"Jadda? Your face is long tonight."

Hours had passed, and Jadda was alone with Haidar, a little way off from the rest of their people. Ibn Saif smoothed the sand in front of him, his back to Jadda.

"I was remembering Torqval," Jadda said.

Haidar said nothing. He merely released a long breath.

"I thought I would die by the hands of the Tisroc's men," Jadda said. "Before you freed me."

"We will all die someday."

"Yes. But the Tisroc will die first. And I will see Torqval free."

Haidar gazed up at the sky, gaining his bearings. His long hair was beautiful under the moon. Once he had determined the direction of prayer, he spread his mat on the ground. "Avenat is shy tonight. She covers herself with moonlight's veil. Trust a woman to hide her beauty. Never mind. She will appear only when she is ready."

"In Torqvali we call that star Druzna. It means, 'the Guide.' It appears when night is darkest, reminding us that dawn is near. It teaches us hope and always points the way home. I seldom see that star these days."

"That must trouble you."

"No. I do not need Druzna any more. You are my Guide now."

There was a long silence. Then Haidar said, "Leave me to my prayers, Brother. And tell Kalyan that I desire his company in my tent tonight, if he will join me."

Jadda walked back to camp, carefully fitting his feet into each of the footprints Haidar had left behind. As Haidar prayed to the god of the R'biyanni, Jadda recited his own scripture.

_Man is born free and none has the right to deprive him of his freedom: not gods, not other men, not religion, not state, not government..._


End file.
